Concrete Angel
by Belfast Docks
Summary: In order to achieve that which must be achieved, we at times will become hard as stone, wearing a mask to hide the pain. Four moments in Percy Blakeney's life.
1. Behind the Mask

**Author's Note: **The inspiration for this piece came from the Martina McBride song, _Concrete Angel_. Even though the song itself doesn't really fit _The Scarlet Pimpernel_, certain lyrics do, so I took them out and wrote four segments based off four lyrics that struck me as particularly fitting these characters. The segments are _out of order _chronologically, but the lyrics are _in order_ as they appear in the song.

~BD

* * *

**Concrete Angel**

**I. It's hard to see the pain behind the mask** _(September 1792)_

* * *

The discussion has been dragging on for nearly ten minutes, and shows no sign of stopping – much to Percy Blakeney's irritation.

"...But if her daughter is truly insane," Ffoulkes repeats wearily (for the second time), "then it could be more dangerous than usual to attempt such a rescue. Even if we were able to secure both daughter and mother together, what if the daughter believes we are trying to harm them rather than help them?"

"All would be lost." Hastings sighs heavily as he paces the attic they are ratted in. "She could scream, rouse the servants... I hear they are not very sympathetic sorts, either."

"Naturally," Denys mutters. "Because they feel they have something to gain from this hell! They're probably even on the watch for an attempted rescue. They want that girl dead."

Lord Tony rakes his fingers through his hair, musing it in ten different directions, as he always does when he is annoyed and frustrated and trying to solve a problem. "We cannot go in as soldiers, that much is certain. She would panic, thus."

"Percy?" Andrew queries.

He lifts his heavy-lidded eyes from the guttering candle on the table and frowns at Andrew, hoping that his expression reveals his displeasure at their feeble attempts to formulate ideas on how to save their next rescue. After all, it is up to _him_ to determine the _modus operandi_, up to them to follow it – and without question.

But then, they are all new at this sport, having only begun it a month ago. It will take time to work out the little kinks, and he knew this when he hatched the idea of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel.

Fortunately, the look does the trick, and the few members of their little league gathered around him fall silent. He takes a deep breath and rises from his chair, and says firmly, "Very well. If you are all through complaining about trivialities, I shall tell you what will be done. _I_ will rescue the Duchess Chambrier and her daughter. As they have not yet been arrested, it is only a matter of smuggling them out of their estate and out of the village, and thence to the coast. Hastings, Tony, Denys – I expect the three of you to be waiting half a league past the east gate of the town, where I shall pick you both up in a covered cart of some sort. I shall likely be dressed as an old farmer, but be prepared for another disguise in case that one falls through. Try to dress as peasants, if you can find such clothing. Andrew, Stowmarries, Phillip – the three of you will travel back up the old _bois_ road towards the coast; when you arrive at the Guerin farm, procure fresh horses, and wait for me a mile further up, well hidden but where you will have a good view of what is approaching on the road, so you will be able to meet us. Understood?"

There is a murmur of assent, and all rise to follow their instructions. Without waiting to see that they will do as told, Percy leaves them to it, and disappears out the attic door and into the dark hall, down the rickety steps, and out a rear door into a narrow alley.

Half an hour later, he finds himself moving down a very different hall – a hall that was once bejeweled with fine tapestries and rugs, priceless pieces of art and furniture. A hall that belongs to the elder Duchess and her daughter. Her husband passed away two years prior and since then, the servants have practically stripped the entire estate of anything worth value, believing they have the right under this new government. The Duchess allows them, for she knows she does not have the strength to stop them.

A few more paces and he is then in the boudoir, and to his surprise, he finds the younger woman alone. He pauses in the doorway, unsure how to proceed.

A mental illness eats away at her; her movements are slow and sluggish and her speech is slightly slurred. Her eyes are large and probing, skittish and afraid; because she does not have the ability to understand any more than a small child would. There is no cure for what ails her, for she was born this way, and many who see her find that her lolling tongue and rolling eyes are grotesquely frightening. The servants have started to whisper that she is dangerous and inhuman, and there have been talks that she must die.

However, to his shock, she turns those strange, white-blue eyes to his and looks him over; a hunched old man he is disguised as, dressed in tattered clothing. After a moment in which both are perfectly still, she whispers in a stumbling tongue, "Are you here to save us?"

He feels his body relax at her inquiry, and he gently replies, "I am. I have been sent by a man to take you away from France, to the Netherlands."

She pauses, as though trying to work it out in her head, before her eyes fall to a small piece of crumpled, dirty paper in her hand. "We received this," she says fretfully – and he recognizes it as the paper bearing his mark.

He slowly moves forward and kneels beside her, taking care that his movements are not too quick, lest he frighten her. There is a fleeting pain in his heart, like a sharp prick, as he looks at her and marks how odd this _particular_ illness is, because it makes her look so cartoonish in her features. He has never seen illness like this before. Not even...

He shakes the thought from his mind. He mustn't think of such things, especially not now. Quietly, he asks, "And will you trust me to take you and your mother to safety?"

She looks at him for a long time, then diverts her eyes to the ripped curtains in the windows, the oil lamp on the table, the torn cushions on the sofa beneath her. The awful disease which riddles her brain makes her thoughts slow, and he must wait. But finally, she murmurs, "Oui, monsieur."

He nods satisfactorily, for he has gained her trust: a most difficult task. Perhaps the hardest of all.

But as he rises to his feet once more, the boudoir door opens again, and the elder Duchess enters with a gasp.

He immediately opens his mouth to explain, but the mentally ill girl speaks first.

"He is here to help! Do not send him away, maman!"

Clutching her breast from her fright, the Duchess whispers, "_Mon Dieu_! But of course, you must be one of those brave men whom we received notice about! She did not scream at the sight of you, monsieur? She is terrified of strangers!"

"He is different," the girl says mulishly, her large, protruding eyes gazing unblinkingly at him. She does not have the ability to explain this rational.

The duchess can only stare at both of them, and Sir Percy Blakeney can only suppress the strange emotions within him. This girl is _truly_ mentally disabled. She was born with this disease; a disease the doctors cannot cure. Her mother has done all in her power to keep the girl out of a convent, or worse, one of those horrid institutions that locks such people away for their differences. It is a very opposite ailment from what he saw as a child, and – not for the first time – he wonders if the doctors who tried to 'help' so long ago were wrong in their diagnoses.

Of course they were. He knew it then, too. But he was too young to speak his mind. And now it is too late to speak his mind.

And yet, the mask remains impassive. He has a task to complete: he must rescue these two women from death. The past cannot be changed, but the future can.


	2. Secret Storm

**Concrete Angel**

**II. Bearing the burden of a secret storm** _(March 1772)_

* * *

"May I ask how you feel today?"

She has been watching him from the moment he entered her room, and now she gazes at him as he stops beside her bed. The pain temporarily leaves her, and she soaks in the sight of his fair hair and pretty blue-gray eyes, which are gazing at her in boyish concern. He is the only thing she wishes to think about.

Lovingly, she murmurs, "Much better, now that I have seen you today, my dear."

When he smiles in return, she reaches forward and touches his cheek, her fingertips slowly skimming the soft skin. He is so young, so innocent. The pain stabs at her – not the pain in her head, but the pain in her heart that she is perforce to leave him motherless, and soon.

But he need not know that, yet.

His face has brightened at her words and her spirit is lifted tenfold at the mere sight. Without question, he quickly takes his usual seat beside her bed, drawing the velveteen chair up so close that his knees press into the fluffy blankets that surround her.

"I wrote you a poem yesterday evening, before I went to bed," he says cheerfully, as he carefully unfolds a piece of parchment he had tucked in his waistcoat.

"Oh! But of course you must read it, darling! I cannot wait to hear it."

And he begins immediately, reading to her the words he has written about the tulips in the fields beyond Amsterdam, and comparing them to her hair and her eyes and her voice. And she can only gaze in wonderment at how such a beautiful sonnet could be written by so young a boy, how the words sound so mature for someone so childlike, and the worry she feels at the thought of leaving him fills her with a hollow dread.

Just as her son finishes his recital, a stern voice interrupts, "That is enough. Your mother must rest, m'boy. You know she is not well. Return to your chambers."

Instantly, the child's face falls. His gaze shifts from the parchment to his lap, the smile fades, the eyes become dull. And, in sheer frustration, she turns a reproachful gaze to her weary husband, who stands in the doorway of her rooms.

"He is doing no harm. Let him stay a while longer. I wish it."

"I'm sorry, m'dear. But you must rest. The doctor says –"

Anger flares within her; the anger they so foolishly call "insanity" (because they do not wish to know better) and is only a dying mother's wish to be near her only child. They say she is dying from this so-called 'insanity', and yet she knows the doctors cannot be right, for she is certain that something is wrong _inside_her, something that is not 'insanity', but something _else_. Something that is eating away at her. Not at her mind, but at her _body_. Where she was once strong and able, she is now weak and worn, and it makes her angry. The doctors only see the anger, and so she is 'insane'.

Summoning the strength to rebuke her husband, she says forcefully, "I am feeling better today. Let him stay with me a while longer. Surely his tutoring can wait."

The man in the doorway looks exhausted, as though he doesn't wish to argue...as though he is aging decades as these weeks go by, instead of days. He shakes his head and leaves her in peace, not wishing to force her into anything anymore, because he is too tired to keep on like this. In the back of her mind, she dimly realizes that he, too, will leave their son soon after she does, and she cannot bear the thought of her darling child being so alone.

With a deep sigh, she turns her gray eyes back to the boy, who looks scared and worried. Upset that she has frightened him, she says gently, "It was a beautiful poem, Percy. Will you read it again, please? Your writing is so lovely. It reminds me of William Shakespeare. You should continue to study his works, I think."

His face lightens, the fear dissipates, and he quickly turns back to the paper and begins to read again.

She settles on her pillows, and wonders how much time she has with him, before the awful doctors take her only joy away forever.


	3. Hard as a Stone

**Concrete Angel**

**III. Through the wind and the rain she stands hard as a stone** _(September 1794)_

* * *

The gale was picking up considerably, lashing against the side of the ramshackle cottage as though determined to dash it to pieces. But despite the ferocity, the storm was also their ally; too dangerous was it for those that would wish to kill them, to track them here in this rage.

Still, not all of their party was safe within the little hovel.

And so she stood in the doorway, the front of her ragged dress soaked through, and her hair plastered to her forehead and shoulders, dripping into her eyes as she tried to gaze through the sheets of water to see the thin track that led to the cottage. The rough sabots she had donned were splattered with mud, which also speckled her delicate ankles. But she did not even notice the haggard, rough appearance she presented. And if she was aware of how she looked, she most certainly didn't care.

Behind her, in a tiny room with a small fire in the hearth, her comrades were tracing out escape routes to the coast, the low rumble of their voices drowned by the driving rain and the loud clashes of thunder, until one of them apparently glanced up and saw her standing in the open doorway, staring out into the quickly-gathering darkness. He called loudly for her to come back inside, lest she catch her death of cold.

How easy it was to ignore them, she thought wryly. Men she danced with in London, men she entertained in her home, men who kissed her dainty fingertips and bowed to her at balls. Men she trusted, because they trusted her husband. But she could still ignore them, despite this. Standing completely still, like the sentry she was, she continued to squint into the rain, grateful for each flash of lightening that illuminated the muddy landscape and gave her a bright view of the path.

A firm hand suddenly appeared on the door beside her, trying to push it past her slender frame to shut out the rain. Her sharp blue eyes turned stonily to Stowmarries, and he took a quick step backward at her expression.

Sir Andrew appeared on her other side then, braver than Stowmarries. He was dressed in the rags of a French peasant and looked much the worse for the wear than he usually did, considering he had been the one to walk through the bulk of the mud, leading their cart here so the horses wouldn't lose their footing.

"Lady Blakeney, you must come within and warm yourself. Percy will be here soon. You must trust me."

"Thank you, Andrew. Of course I trust you. But I shall wait here," she replied stiffly. Her muscles ached and her head throbbed, but the fire did not sound inviting if her husband were not at her side. Before Andrew could attempt to coax her again, she turned her blue gaze back to the path, and after a few long, tense seconds, the two men left her alone and retreated to the fire once more. The low voices picked up again, as her friends divided out their meager rations. Two minutes later, Phillip appeared beside her with a pinched look in his usually handsome young face, and handed her a thick slice of stale bread.

She nodded her silent thanks and turned back to her watch, keeping the bread slightly behind her hip so that it wouldn't get wet. It was foolish to waste food, here. There was no telling when they would find more, although British gold usually would do the trick, if nothing else worked.

The minutes ticked by, until thirty had passed, and a sudden flash of lightening shot through the sky, outlining the large silhouette of an approaching man, who was carrying a bundle in his arms while another shorter figure stumbled along beside him, clutching his left arm for support. Marguerite Blakeney cried out softly, and immediately, Phillip and Andrew were on their feet. Both touched her shoulder as though to impart their strength to her before running out into the rain to meet their chief; one quickly lent his arm to the stumbling figure while the second offered to take the bundle (and was subsequently refused, which was quite usual).

As they came closer, Marguerite quickly stepped back and held the door open; her husband paused only to give her a weary, yet loving look that plainly told her how grateful he was to see her standing there, before he brushed into the cottage and deposited a young, sniffling little girl beside the fire. Andrew and Phillip followed him, each supporting an aristocratic (and rain-soaked) woman, who managed a tiny, haughty smile at Marguerite before she staggered forward to join her daughter. Already, Tony and Hastings were handing them bread and milk; both ladies profusely thanked their rescuers in hoarse voices before falling to their meager meal.

Marguerite noticed her husband had slipped out of sight, however. Likely he had gone back outside, and without thought, she hurried into the rain, knowing that the other members of the League were too engrossed with assisting the Comtesse de Anaelle and her daughter to follow her.

It was in the tumbling stables that she found her husband, dutifully checking on the wet horses that had dragged the cart and the other members of the League to this place, likely to see if they were up for the next leg of the journey now that they had rested a bit.

He glanced up at her entrance and looked her over sadly. Marguerite hurried forward before he could remark on how he wished she had remained in England, because he hated to see her thus. She threw her arms about him, kissing him firmly on the mouth.

As soon as they parted, he breathed huskily, "You're soaked to the skin, Margot." She could feel his hand trembling against the small of her back; through her thin dress, the heat was scorching. He whispered, "You'll catch cold, and I shall never forgive myself. I knew this was not a good idea, to have you come along on our missions."

"_Dieu_, Percy. I will not wait in England whilst you are here. Not any longer. I am soaked because I was waiting for you. Had you not arrived..." She shuddered at the thought, then, to distract herself, she held out the piece of bread Phillip had given her. "You're starved, I'm sure," she said briskly.

"Have _you_ eaten?" he asked, his expression suspicious.

A few seconds passed, with only the sound of the drowning, pounding rain on the roof of the precarious stable in their ears. Then, with a wry smile, she tore the piece of bread in half, knowing that if he had asked such a question, he would not eat until she had.

He took it with a soft, sad smile...for no other words were necessary between them then, right now.


	4. A Statue

**Concrete Angel**

**IV. A statue stands in a shaded place; an angel girl with an upturned face **_(October 1792)_

* * *

She finds him standing solemnly before the statute, his brow furrowed and his eyes a darker gray than usual.

She has never asked why this lovely angel stands in the furtherest, wildest garden from the house, because there are many fine statues scattered over Richmond's grounds, and she has never wondered that this one might be different...until now. But she also does not ask why he has suddenly decided to visit it today when, to her knowledge, he has never gone to this garden before.

But then, they have been apart for so long, that she realizes he could have gone anywhere in the world (and has) without her knowledge.

Surpressing the sadness that has immediately threatened to engulf her, she touches his arm to make him aware of her presence, though it is hardly necessary. Surely he heard her approach. And, as he does not rouse himself, she assumes she was correct in her deduction.

Not wishing to disrupt his solitude, she remains silent as she stands beside him, and devotes herself to studying the beautiful statue. It is an angel with a flowing dress in the classical style, her beautiful wings curved and arched from shoulders to ankles, the feathers and face precisely carved by a master. The overhanging tree behind it gives the white marble a dappled effect of sun and shade, with red and gold leaves swirling in gusts about it. The expression upon the features is different than any angel she has seen. However, the face does seem familiar, as though she has seen it before, though she cannot recall where or how. The mystery suddenly becomes overwhelming, and she racks her brain to unravel the confusion.

Still, she is unable to place the visage, so she turns her eyes discretely to the man beside her, the cool wind ruffling her pale cream-gold gown, and the fine lace at her breast. She draws her wrap more closely about her to ward off the chill, and takes in her husband's beautifully cut coat - a dark brown that is much less fancy than his usual selection. It suits him better, she thinks. It looks masculine and firm, just as he is. The pale colors he wears to parties and balls always seem so foppish. That is, of course, the point, but now that she knows his true personalility, she likes it ever so much more.

Finally, she hears the parish bells chime the hour a mile away, and she sighs deeply and turns her gaze towards the doleful, pretty sound. She is still confused by this solemn, odd moment in her day, but perhaps some things are best left as mysteries.

Then his voice breaks her thoughts; low and quiet, thoughtful and sad.

"It was created especially for me, at my request, by a Dutch artist. What is your opinion of it, m'dear?"

She quickly turns to look at the angel again, eager that he has asked for her thoughts, because it means he has indeed forgotten what horrible things happened such a short time ago. "I think it is a beautiful piece," she responds truthfully. "The face seems familiar to me, and yet I cannot place it. Was it modeled after a specific person, or is it the artist's interpretation of Aphrodite?"

Her husband's mouth curves slightly, but the sadness remains in his eyes. He says, "The artist did not have any interpretation in it; he followed my explicit instructions to the letter."

"Then it is _your_ interpretation of Aphrodite?" she asks, a trifle tartly. Because she would be hurt if he did not think her the most beautiful woman on earth. And she doesn't care if such a thought is vanity.

He does not laugh, as would be his usual wont, but merely says, "You are my interpretation of that goddess, m'dear. And this visage is not yours, I'm afraid. It is someone equally cherished, however."

And instantly, time stops, for she suddenly remembers this face. She has seen it, for it hangs in portrait form in his study; a beautiful woman who gave him a few of her features at his birth, and who died whilst he was still young of what doctors claimed was insanity.

Hollowly, she whispers, "It is beautiful, and well-captured. But, pray, why place it so far from the house? I believe she would grace the rose garden to perfection, sir."

He takes her hand, slowly twining their fingers together and placing his other hand on top of both of theirs. "Perhaps," he murmurs. "But here, I am likely the only person – aside from your exquisite self – to visit her. It is a selfish wish, is it not? I fear I am an exceedingly selfish person, Margot. I do not want anyone else to gaze upon her."

"Oh, Percy! How can you say such things? You are the least selfish person who walks this earth! And if you wish to keep her to yourself, by placing her here, then your intentions are understandable and commendable." She pauses, then adds in a hesitating voice, "Do you wish me to leave you be? You have but to command me to never return to this place, and I would obey without question."

He swallows, shakes his head sharply, and squeezes her fingers. "God, no, dearest! You are free to go wherever you wish! And I believe she would have wanted to know you. She would have loved you."

Tears gather in her eyes, and she whispers in a choked voice, "If it does not pain you much, will you tell me of her? Please?"

The smile finally reaches his eyes; they lighten, and he looks at her lovingly.

"My beautiful Margot," he whispers, touching her cheek. "But of course I shall tell you, if you wish to know."

She nods, like a child. Of course she wishes to know. She wishes to be involved in every part of his being, every second of his life, every thought and every wish he holds in his heart. She is his wife, and she trusts him now as she has never trusted another soul on earth. Not even her brother.

He takes a deep breath and looks to the blue sky, watching the red leaves dance across it. "She was a kind woman, full of love and laughter – a soft, sweet laugh, not nearly as musical as yours is, I'm afraid; but gentle and low. She loved long walks, which is why I have placed the statute here, because I like to think that this would have been her favorite place at Richmond. She always said..."

And she listened, enraptured, as he told her of his beloved mother.

**~FIN~**


End file.
